Somewhere Past Ordinary
by bohowriter
Summary: "All right, then. Tell you a story, tell you what I know...These usually start out 'once upon a time,' yes? Then…once upon a time…there was a man." Sherlock stopped. "No, a modern children's story wouldn't be about a man. So once upon a time, there was a boy.." Set a year after HLV: having shown up early for dinner, Sherlock recounts his time with John to John's infant daughter.


**Author's Note:** So this is different from my other stories (read: happy, and one of the few set in the "future"). I felt like trying something lighter, something with Sherlock's place in the Watson family once the daughter arrives. Tried to keep everyone in character as much as possible, and without over-the-top fluff. Responses would be greatly appreciated!

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 **Somewhere Past Ordinary**

Social rules be damned: Sherlock Holmes didn't see anything wrong with showing up to a dinner party, even a dinner party like this, an hour early. With nothing in his hands except case files. Well, _of course_ he'd brought along the case files: that was the entire reason he was early. He planned on showing John the notes he'd made since they last saw each other, and before dinner seemed to be the best time. Otherwise, once everyone arrived the attention would be shifted to small talk (dull) and current events (worse) and oh-my-how-the-baby's-grown (obvious, it's what children do) and _stop_ -talking-about-The-Work-for-one-minute-on-today-of-all-days-Sherlock (agonizing). So, before seemed best.

Only now that he was standing in the Watsons' kitchen, watching chaos unfold, Sherlock realized he'd made an error of judgment. As was often the case when social rules were being followed.

Mary and John, apparently trying to win Britain's award for Most Progressive Couple, were both involved in cooking dinner. Sherlock always believed in the person who could do the best job being responsible for the task. Unfortunately, he found both Mary and John's culinary skills to be average at best, so he wondered why they didn't flip a coin and let one do all the work. This "teamwork" approach seemed to do nothing but create confusion. As teamwork often did in any scenario.

Then there was the baby. Hannah was currently contained in the thing which resembled a cage (but John said repeatedly was _not a cage_ and asked that Sherlock please stop calling it that, especially in public). But only being seven months old, Hannah was also unable to entertain herself for long periods of time and was currently distraught that she was without attention. So she would cry out, and one parent would stop to check on her, which set the whole cooking operation back a bit.

Sherlock rolled the case files up and stuck them in the pocket of his coat. It _would_ figure he and John wouldn't get any work done tonight. He wandered into the sitting room and sat in a chair opposite the baby's solitary confinement container. Hannah stared at him and he stared back, raising his eyebrows as if to say "disaster, isn't it?" She smiled her two-and-a-half-tooth grin and squealed.

John came rushing into the room, sauce splattered on his shirt. "Okay, listen, since you're here early, I hate to do it tonight, but I need to ask a favor."

Sherlock stared at John blankly. "It doesn't involve being a third chef, I hope?"

"No, no," John replied quickly. "Mary's got to get dressed, and we're out of milk. I somehow feel the need to blame you for that," John added offhandedly, "but anyway, I need you to watch Hannah. She won't get much attention during dinner, so if you play with her a bit now, she'll be fine while we eat."

With that, John reached down and picked up his daughter, who was already reaching up for her dad. He turned and placed the baby in Sherlock's lap. It all happened so quickly Sherlock barely had time to react.

"Watch the baby? Alone?"

"Mary's just down the hall," John started wiping at his shirt with a handkerchief. "Shit, I'll have to change, too."

"John, I—I have no idea what—"

But John was already putting on his shoes and coat. The matter was settled. "You'll be fine. She likes stories; tell her a story."

"A _story_?"

"Yeah, you know. Make something up. Tell her something you know."

John had started for the front door, and, gripping the baby tightly to his chest, Sherlock followed. "John, I don't _tell_ stories. And what I know isn't appropriate for a child!"

John turned around, making sure Mary was out of earshot. "Look, mate," he murmured. "It really doesn't matter what you tell her. She can't understand you at this age. All that matters is you're talking to her, paying attention to her." He opened the door and stepped outside. "Just keep a happy tone of voice and she'll be fine!"

 _Happy tone of voice_? Did John even know him at all?

Mary had disappeared to the bedroom, which left Sherlock and the baby all alone. He walked her back into the sitting room and sat back down in the chair. Then he turned so he could look at her.

"So…Hannah…" he began, trying out a _happy tone of voice_. It sounded forced at best, sarcastic at worst, and the baby looked up at him, confused in the change of timbre. "All right, you know me well enough so maybe I'll just talk to you in my regular voice," Sherlock conceded. "How's that? We ignore your Dad?"

Hannah continued to stare at him, more content now and seeming to take in his every word. Sherlock observed her in return. Even though he saw the Watsons nearly every week, including the baby, he was amazed at how quickly she was developing a facial structure different from when she was a newborn. She had Mary's ears and hair, but her face was John Watson made over. The look she was giving him now reminded Sherlock of the look John gave him the night of their first case, and his lips shifted slightly into a smile.

 _That…was amazing._

 _That's not what people normally say._

Sherlock settled in the chair. "All right, then. Tell you a story, tell you what I know." He sighed thoughtfully. "These usually start out 'once upon a time,' yes? Then…once upon a time…there was a man." He stopped. "No, a modern children's story wouldn't be about a man. So once upon a time, there was a boy.

"And this boy, he worked—er, played that he was a detective. And he was the best. He made believe he was the world's only consulting detective, in fact." Sherlock looked down at Hannah. "To put it in your terms, this boy fixed things that were wrong, but didn't work for anyone. He worked alone. And he liked it that way."

Sherlock's hand slipped up and rubbed the baby's head gently. Her hair was fine and soft, like down. He'd seen John and Mary do this, and now he understood why. It was nice, comforting, and apparently Hannah enjoyed it, as she snuggled against his chest.

"But one day the detective-boy met another boy. This boy pretended to be a solider and a doctor. That meant he was smart, too, but in a different way than the detective-boy. The detective-boy was good with his mind. The doctor-boy was quick with his hands. So they started to work together.

"And what was unique about the doctor-boy, while he wasn't as clever, he could see things sometimes the detective-boy couldn't. Things about people and why they did what they did. Sometimes the detective-boy would have a hard time understanding things like that. And that's why he was alone before."

Sherlock frowned slightly, hearing his own words aloud. He'd never said anything like that before. But then again, he'd never tried to make his life into a story for a child. He simply lived it; he had never had to explain it.

Pausing for a moment, Sherlock offered his other hand to the baby, who reached out and gripped his fingers tightly. He smiled: Hannah came from a tough bloodline, so naturally she would be strong. Without meaning to, Sherlock imagined a moment ten years down the road, with the baby in his arms now a young girl. Hannah would likely be shorter than her classmates, thanks to John and Mary's genetics. But she'd be friendly like John, and well-liked. And she'd be smart, too. Sherlock imagined sitting with Hannah on the couch at Baker Street, playing Cluedo. He'd teach her early on that the rules were a starting point, and she'd learn quickly that the murder weapon could easily be something not listed on the box. "The rope was just a red herring, Uncle Sherlock" he could hear the girl say, looking up at him with the same eyes he saw right now.

Sherlock shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. "That…could be the end of the story. But it's really not." He frowned. "A good story needs conflict and development. And I suppose that would be when the detective-boy had to…go away…for a bit." Sherlock chewed on his lip, regarding the baby. "No matter what your Dad says, there's some things you shouldn't hear, ever. Even if you can't understand. So let's skip to the part when the detective-boy comes back. Because _there's_ the conflict in the story. When he comes back, everything's changed.

"The doctor-boy had found a new best friend: a girl. We'll call her survivor-girl, because despite anything else in her life, that's who she is. A survivor." Sherlock sighed slightly, knowing where the story was headed. "And the detective-boy was gone for so long that things were different when he returned. For a while, he was back to how he used to be: alone.

"Now, Hannah, you'd think that this wouldn't be a problem. Because I told you earlier, the detective-boy didn't mind being alone before he met the doctor-boy. But that's something you'll learn someday," Sherlock smiled grimly. "If you've never experienced something, you don't know what you're missing. But the minute you have something and it's gone, you'll always feel its absence. And nothing else can fill it."

Hannah stared at Sherlock, rapt. She had interjected throughout with her own squeals and unintelligible comments, but Sherlock could tell John was right: she simply liked hearing his voice. So, he continued.

"But, as time went on, things changed again. They didn't go back to the way they were, because nothing can ever do that, no matter how much you wish it. Instead, they got better."

Just then, John came back in the door, milk in hand. "All right?" he called out to Sherlock.

"Yes, in here!" Sherlock responded.

"The others are just behind me, and I still haven't changed shirts!" John grumbled as he made his way past Sherlock and his daughter and towards his bedroom. "Mary! I hope you're almost ready, because otherwise Sherlock bloody Holmes is going to be the host of his own birthday dinner!"

Sherlock heard the conversation outside the door. Lestrade. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft. He knew they were all coming, of course, but he could hear each of their voices as they made their way up the steps to the door, could tell who arrived first based on their order. He could also tell by the faint hint of smoke in the air that the cake in the oven was past being "done" and bordering on "burnt."

Sensing that these events were nearing a collision, Sherlock spoke quickly and quietly, not wanting to leave Hannah without an end to the story.

"You see, things got better, because the detective-boy realized he had more than just the doctor-boy. He had the survivor-girl, too. And others, who had been there from the start. The police-boy. And the girl who worked with dead bodies. And the lady who brought him tea. And even his own annoying older brother. And by being in his life, they were like the doctor-boy: they all showed the detective-boy something different, something he hadn't seen before."

The door opened, and his friends spilled into the room. Laughing and talking. "Happy birthday, Sherlock!" he heard Mrs. Hudson call into the sitting room. Sherlock smiled and gave a quick kiss to the baby's head, and he saw why John and Mary did that so often, too.

"Then along came a baby. And she showed the detective-boy something different about the world, too." He rested his nose against the baby's head. "So the moral of the story, Hannah, is that you are going to have a most interesting life."

"That's not a moral, you git, that's a damn curse," John said, wearing a clean but wrinkled shirt and appearing by the side of his chair. He motioned into the next room. "With this lot in her life, plus me and you, she doesn't stand a chance at being ordinary."

From the kitchen, the smoke alarm began to blare. Mary rushed past them, cursing. "That'd be your cake, Sherlock! Couldn't have a store-bought one, could you?"

Sherlock rose from his seat, beamed at his best friend, and handed over the little girl. He didn't even have to try for a happy tone of voice when he spoke.

"Now, since when did we ever strive for ordinary?"


End file.
